


Right Under Your Nose

by whitehart



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF John Watson, Criminal Sherlock Holmes, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Happy ending... sort of, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Maybe no comfort at all, Parent John Watson, Parent Sherlock, Serial Killers, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 09:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12166227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitehart/pseuds/whitehart
Summary: Sally Donovan is a serial killer. Will Sherlock ever find the truth?*Sherlock in this story may be a little OOC. IMO he would have more empathy after living with John for so many years.**There may be some references to Sherlock BBC, but the story takes place mostly in an alternate universe.This story was inspired by Peggy Peters from Facebook's [I Am JohnLocked: Fan Fiction Writers and Readers] post.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Obviousoption](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviousoption/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally was 16 and she was out at a party on her birthday. A cry for help lured her into the dark side.

It started with poultry animals her parents had in their family farm. Sally would volunteer since the age of eight to slaughter the Donovan’s annual Christmas turkey and occasionally a chicken for special occasions. Her parents raised Sally in the countryside, childhood filled with hunting trips, tending to the chickens, turkeys, building coops and horseback riding.

At the age of twelve, her father had brought her and her older brother, Marcus, to their first hunting season. They were each given a swiss army knife and a small survival kit just in case they got lost in the woods. After months of training, Mr Donovan was comfortable enough to let the kids run after their German Shepherd, hunting small preys. That was Sally’s first taste of the hunt. The thrill of the hunt and kill excited her, but pigeons and deers were eventually not enough.

She never realised what it was until she was sixteen. One evening as she was leaving a college party in town, she heard a girl scream from a dark alley across the street she was walking on. Pulling out her pocket knife to protect herself, she found the girl curled up in a corner, sobbing as she asked for help. A quick glance to the other side of the alley, she noticed shadows of someone running out into the street.

“Help me, please…”

Instead of helping her, Sally saw a prey. A weak, helpless prey, and her mind was immediately filled with bloodlust. Hovering over the girl, Sally stabbed her once in the heart and grinned as she went weak, took her last breath and fell limp. Sally pulled herself away from the body and stood over it triumphantly. Her eyes were glowing, reflecting light from the street. Taking a deep breath, she cleaned her knife with the girl’s dress and folded it back into her boots before calling emergency services.

“Help. She’s… dead. Help, please!” She cried into the phone and leaned closed to the girl. There was no conscience, guilt or remorse in her mind. ‘ _Why does it feel so good?’_ Sally thought as she repeated the scene earlier in her mind, peaking her curiosity and her desire.

 

Sally’s eyes followed the stretcher rolling into the ambulance with a body bag. She was sitting next to a police officer who offered her a cup of hot chocolate and EMT gave her a blanket to cover her blood soaked clothes. Sipping the cup of hot chocolate, she noticed a burly looking man glancing at her while he was talking to the medical examiner. As he came closer to her, she stared down at the floor, rehearsing her story over and over in her head.

“Sally, is it?” Sally nodded as the detective spoke to her gently, “I need you to tell me what happened, could you do that?”

Sally was shivering in excitement, but she couldn’t let her face show.

“I know you’re shaken. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

Fake tears were rolling down her cheeks as she answered. Sally kept her head down.

“I was walking down the street to catch the bus home and I heard… heard her scream. It was a short yelp, but I heard… I saw… saw someone running away. I was afraid. So scared…”

Sally let out a short sob before she continued, raising her head slightly and looked at the detective’s eyes through her lashes.

“I was hiding behind that wall until there was no sound… she was crying and… I went to her, and I saw the blood. So much blood! I asked her if she’s alright but she went limp… I tried to… I held her but… She wasn’t breathing. Oh god…” She buried her face in her palms and continued to sob.

“Sally, let’s get EMT to clear you, and we will take you home, alright?”

 

It only took the police a day to find the three men who raped Sally’s first victim. There were others who saw three of them running out of the alley where the victim was found, and heard Sally’s voice when she called emergency services.

They were charged with rape and voluntary manslaughter. The murder weapon was never found, hidden safely in Sally’s boots. With Sally’s false testimony, they had enough evidence to charge all three men with both charges. The defendants had _mens rea_ of murder, clear intentions of causing the victim grievous bodily harm, which led to her death.

 

_‘Breaking news. Nineteen year old girl was found dead, stabbed after being raped by three men, aged between nineteen to twenty seven. All three men pleaded not guilty of manslaughter last week, but admitted to the rape.  The jury convicted them to voluntary manslaughter this morning, and all three are sentenced to twenty years in prison. This is the evening news on---’_

Mr Donovan turned off the telly as the news report ended but Sally continued to stare at the blank screen, reminiscing her first kill.

_That was so satisfying! I’ll have to do this again._

And she did.

Once a year, Sally would take one kill. It was always swift - stab to the heart and let her victim bleed out. At twenty, she joined the force and learned different ways to avoid getting caught. Randomisation is the key. Never let someone piece the puzzles together. She could change her persona to fit almost any environment and she was highly intelligent with a great deal of planning going into her attacks. Her lack of empathy and lack of true feelings for others made her seem spiteful and mean, but she was charming enough for everyone to disregard her occasional outburst.

During her early activities, Sally’s kills were random. Eventually it wasn’t enough to satisfy her narcissistic trait. Her kills were lost in the pile of gang murders, robberies and the small timers willingly claimed her kills as theirs to climb up the gang-career ladder.

 

She wanted, **needed** her kills to be hers.


	2. Bottles of Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally's 29th birthday, and her first taste of one-upping Sherlock Holmes.

“Tell me, how does that feel?”

Sally grinned as she traced her knife across his chest, gently cutting thin lines, licking her lips as blood slowly trickled down his body. Her victim refused to speak and shut his eyes tight. She stared at the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter, wondering if someone would ever realise its significance.

“I always like the naughty ones. Not fighting back, but in denial. Let me bring you back to reality, hmm?” She sing-songed as she drew a deeper cut across his left nipple. He screamed and wailed as the pain rolled through his nerves, caused him to shudder jerk involuntarily on the floor.

“Let’s try this again…” One hand she held his hair and pulled his head up facing her, the other hand with the knife held against his chest over his heart. She pushed the tip and it pierced through half a centimeters.

“How. Does. It. Feel?” She pushed a little deeper with every word, until she felt his heart beating against the tip of her knife.

“P--please…” He was going into shock from the pain in his chest. Sally noticed and knew the fun had ended. She looked into his eyes and smiled before pushing her body against the handle of her knife, feeling his last breath and his life coming to a stop.

“You’re welcome, Timothy Hooper.”

Sally stood from the floor and walked out onto the front porch facing a lake. The moon shone brightly, reflecting the hills on the lake’s surface. She took a deep breath and stared out into the open for a couple of minutes before stripping the plastic sheets wrapped around her body and stuffed them into a sack. Walking back towards her car by the lake, she swung the sack hard, flung it into the deep end of the lake. The splash made her lips twitch into a smile that kept until she arrive back in her flat in London.

Sally whispered to herself as she locked her front door. Holding a cork from the wine bottle she left in Tommy’s lakeside cabin, she added it into her well-hidden safe behind her bookshelf, joining six other corks she had been collecting since she was twenty-two.

“Happy birthday to me.”

**#######**

“My condolences Molly. I hope everything is alright at home?”

Greg was holding onto Molly’s shoulder when Sally went over and offered her condolences to the crying sister. She held Molly’s free hand and pulled her into a hug. Deep down, a dark smile emerged as she felt the pain in her latest victim’s family.

“Apparently it seems that Anderson’s home isn’t, given that he has been sleeping at your flat for the last two nights.” Sherlock appeared behind Sally and outed her affair with Anderson before John could stop him.

“Sorry,” John huffed then looked into Molly’s eyes as she peeled herself away from Sally’s arms, “He didn’t mean any of that.”

“Of course I meant every word. Facts, John, are never meaningless.”

“Sherlock! It’s not the right time.”

“Ah, of course, my apologies Molly. Know that John and I are available to assist you during this time of bereavement, but of course it would be subjected to our schedule.” Sherlock declared the last sentence with sharp enunciation, as if he had memorize a script.

“We will drop whatever we are doing and come to you if you need us. You are a good friend Molly.” John said as he hugged her and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“And we will find whoever did this. One of our own. We won’t stop till we find the bastard.”

Sally nodded and gave Lestrade a light smile when he declared war against Tommy’s killer. Unbeknown to everyone there, his murderer was standing right in front of them.

Sherlock Holmes. That name gave Sally goosebumps when she had first met him eighteen months ago. This was her first kill when he was sober. His keen observations and deductions gave her even more satisfaction when he couldn’t figure out who killed Molly’s older brother.

 

_Let’s play, Sherlock._


	3. The Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally's 30th birthday is coming up, and her lover's wife is in town.  
> This would be her second kill since Sherlock started consulting with NSY.

“Hmm… Anderson spent the night again?” Sherlock taunted as he walked past Sally into a crime scene.

“Looks like your blogger gave you a limp. What’s wrong? Arse hurts a little, freak?”

Sherlock walked right by and pretended he did not hear that. He knew John would take care of her comment soon enough.

“Six rounds. More than what you get with Anderson in a month.” John said softly, just loud enough for Sally to hear when he passed her behind Sherlock.

“Ugh, freaks.”

 

Her affair with Anderson started a few months before her birthday. It was a regular night out at the bar, ‘regular’ until Anderson kissed her in the alley and spent the night at her flat. They were both pissed, and agreed that it was a one time thing... until Anderson’s wife left the country on business. She would be away for months, and an affair started.

Psychopaths wouldn’t understand love as an emotion. However, possessiveness would be an adequate equivalent to love.

“We can’t do this anymore. She’s coming home next week. I know it’s your birthday but…”

“No! You’re mine, Philip. I can’t let you go back to her… Come away with me for my birthday next week, please. You don’t even love her anymore!”

“There’s more to our marriage than love. I feel something for you Sally, but it’s not enough to throw away my life with Kate. Please, just let this go.”

“Fine.” Sally calmed herself down with a deep breath. This is far from over, but she knew she had to keep her composure. “If this is what would make you happy, fine. I’ll let it go.” She opened the door and motioned for Anderson to leave. _And my revenge would be sweet. It would be the best birthday present to myself so far!_

 

Kate Anderson landed in Heathrow Airport four days before her best friend was killed on the 15th July. Philip was at work when she arrived at home and found lingerie that did not belong to her. She suspected her husband of having an affair, but she had to find out who. She had to talk to someone about it.

“Whoa. Slow down there hon. You mean Philip had an affair?”

“Having an affair. That bitch came into my home! I found this,” Kate showed her best friend the photo of the lingerie, “in my bedroom!”

“Never thought he was that daring! Any idea who she is?”

“No idea. Could be anyone. From work, from the bar… anyone! What should I do Layla?”

“Well… tail him? Hire a detective?”

“Detective. I know just the person. There’s this guy he complains about all the time. He consults for the yard. I’ll look him up on that blog.”

“Ah, Sherlock Holmes! If it helps, I do work in the same hospital as his blogger. Doctor Watson might put in a good word for you.”

“That’d be great. You’re the best mate anyone could have.”

 

**##########**

 

On her lunch break, Layla walked up to John’s office and knocked it softly.

“Come in.”

“Hey doctor Watson. Have a minute?”

“Layla! You don’t work on this floor… what are you doing here?”

“I need a favour with your… other job.”

“You mean my detective gig?” John chuckled remembering Sherlock’s reaction when he used that phrase last night. “Come on, have a sit and tell me what’s going on?”

“Right, you know Philip? Philip Anderson? His wife’s my best mate and they have a little… situation.”

“Wait, let me guess. She found out about his affair?”

“So you know! Oh god, now she’s really gonna flip! Who’s the homewrecker?”

“Hey, slow down. We have no evidence, but Sherlock has been insinuating it for months now. We know who it is, but does she want proof for… you know, court cases and such?”

“Probably. Tell me, who is it? Someone from the yard?”

“Like I said, we can’t just point a finger without evidence.” He paused for a moment contemplating if he should get Sherlock involved. “You know what? Tell Mrs Anderson to drop by Baker Street later today. We don’t have a case for now and Sherlock has been climbing up the walls all day. This should keep him occupied for awhile.”

“Sure, I’ll let Kate know. 221B Baker Street yeah?”

“Yup. You have my number. Pass it along.”

“Sure. Ah, gotta go. Thanks doc.”

“No problem.”

 

**##########**

 

“Locke, something interesting came up today. Want to hear about it?”

“If it’s another one of your interesting characters that got injured during sexual intercourse, no.”

“It’s about Anderson’s affair.”

Sherlock perched up from his horizontal position on the sofa, eyes glistening.

“Do tell. Ah wait, don’t. Let me deduce it. His wife found out, came to you to put in a good word with me.”

“Almost got it all right,” John sets down two cups of tea on the table and turned his chair towards Sherlock. “She found out, yeah. But her mate came to me. Layla works at the pediatrics ward downstairs and asked if you’d like to gather some evidence for Kate.”

“Kate who?”

“Anderson’s wife.”

“Oh. I always miss something.”

“That you do.” _Me, you always miss me._ John thought.

Before John could put that thought into words, the doorbell rang.

“And that would be her.”

 

Kate broke down and cried, twice, before getting the whole story out to John. Sherlock stopped listening the moment her first sob broke out. He sat in his chair, quietly brewing a plan to obliterate Anderson and Sally once and for all. With Kate now involved, he could easily pass it as the wife’s revenge.

But before Sherlock and John could get properly involved, Sally had made her move.

 

The same evening Kate left Baker Street, Sally broke into Layla’s flat and planted a similar set of lingerie in her wardrobe. It was well within the price range of what she would normally wear. And with a few forensic tricks she learnt from Philip, Sally was well on her way to setting the perfect trap.

Layla was home from a late shift. She hadn’t noticed Sally hiding in the dark corner of her bedroom. While she was filling up her bath, she heard a knock on the door.

“Layla! I know you’re in there! Open up!”

She recognised the voice. Kate.

“Hey Kate, what are you do--- Ow! What the fuck?!”

Kate did not wait for the door to open completely before landing a tight slap on Layla’s face.

“It was you! You’re my best friend! How dare you!”

“What are you talking about?”

A few moments later, Kate and Layla were tugging each other’s hair, rolling all over the carpet. When Layla tried to free herself from Kate’s grip, she stumbled over the coffee table and hit her head on the edge.

“Oh god, Lay? Oh no… no!” Kate cried when Layla went limp and fell on the floor. Before she could reach out, she felt a pair of hands around her neck pulling her away.

Sally held on to Kate’s neck tightly and dragged her to the kitchen where it was dark. She flipped Kate over and pinned her down on the floor, cutting off her airway, just enough to knock her out. Once Kate stopped struggling, she went over to Layla and swiftly stabbed her with a six inch knife from the kitchen.

“Goodnight, and happy birthday to me.”

Pulling the knife out and planting it on Kate’s hand, she gave herself a big round of applause internally. _Well done Sally, well fucking done!_

“Ah, the wine.” She reminded herself.

The scene was set. All she has to do now is to go home and wait for the call. She stripped down the sheet of plastic around her body and stuffed it in a bag before leaving the crime scene. **Her** crime scene.

 

An hour later, she found herself standing at the same doorway as Sergeant Sally Donovan. An emergency call came in when the neighbour complained about water trickling down her ceiling. When the landlord opened Layla’s door, he found her dead in the living room and the murder weapon next to her.

“Murder of passion, obvious.”

John dragged Sherlock to the scene when he heard that Layla was murdered.

“Could this be related to… can’t be. His affair was obvious with Donovan.” John whispered to Sherlock over Layla’s body.

“But evidence suggests Layla was the adultress.”

“Maybe Sally was just giving Anderson a roof over his head.”

Sherlock stood up quickly to find Sally right behind him.

“I guess you owe me an apology then, freak.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, and vice versa. Could be both of you at the same time. But in this case, find Anderson’s wife.”

“What do you think happened?” John asked as they walked away from the scene.

“Anderson had an affair with both Layla and Donovan, but Layla more than the other. His wife found evidence to confront her best friend. The struggle was intense. Layla choked Kate during the struggle and when Layla hit the table, Kate could have experienced a blackout from a stress-induced psychosis break. Went to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and stabbed the victim. There was a blood trail towards the kitchen. If the murderer was Kate, she could have wanted to clean the knife in the sink, but broke out of her psychosis state right then. And realises what she did. Panicked and ran. Hallucinations are common during a psychotic break…”

“I can feel a ‘but’ coming Sherlock.”

“But there is something… something isn’t right.”

“And…?”

“Couldn't put my finger on it. What do you think about Kate's psyche?”

“It is possible for her to experience a brief psychotic disorder. She was going through major stress at work, finding out her husband had an affair with her maid of honour would pile on to it. She did show some of those symptoms, blackout, incoherent speech... There’s really no way to know for sure, but if her family had a history of depression or bipolar, it would be more likely than not. It would be recorded in her medical history.”

“Leave that to Lestrade. I’m bored of this case already. Breakfast?”

“The almighty is hungry!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s remark while demanding for bacon and pancakes.

 

**##########**

 

Early that morning, Greg found Kate hiding in a hotel six blocks from Layla’s apartment. She was covered in blood, and her bruises from her earlier altercation with Layla was obvious. She was mumbling to herself while rocking herself back and forth on the floor. No one could get her to talk until Sally went and sat next to her, admitting that she had also slept with her husband. Kate’s eyes went wide and attacked Sally. She had expected Kate to react that way, and it would only solidify their case against Kate’s aggressive behaviour towards her husband’s mistresses.

Anderson had came out and testified that he was having an affair with Sally, not Layla. However, evidence Sally had planted in the apartment said otherwise. All Sally had to do now was to act out the part of a girlfriend betrayed by her lover.

 

“Kate, I’m sorry. We were really drunk that night, and I swear, it was a one time thing. We work together. It never would’ve worked out for us anyway. We agreed to bury that night as a mistake. I hope you’ll forgive him. I don’t really care if you would be angry at me for the rest of your life, but please, at least accept my apology.”

Kate was on the opposite side of the interrogation room. She couldn’t bear to look into Sally’s eyes.

“There was someone else, but I couldn’t see, or hear… I don’t remember what happened, but I know I didn’t kill Layla. It wasn’t me!”

“I will help you Kate,” Sally reached out her hand and placed it above Kate’s, “tell me everything you remember and we will try our best.”

“I remember going home that night and had a bottle of wine. Liquid courage… I wanted to lay it all out with Philip that night. But before he came home, I remembered something about that lingerie… the look on Layla’s face when I showed it to her. She looked… surprised? Or guilty even. I thought maybe I should flip through his stuff, maybe I’ll find something… and I did. Her… her ID from the hospital was in his backpack!”

“Then you went to Layla’s apartment?”

“Yeah, I went there. Slapped her the moment she opened her door. She pretended like she was innocent. I… We struggled for a bit… and I was holding onto her when she tripped and hit her head on the table. I wanted to help her but there was someone else. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. This person held my neck and pulled me towards the kitchen. It was really dark. I couldn’t see a thing. Pinned me down and choked me until I blacked out. When I woke up, the knife was in my hand… and I… Lay was gone. I tried to… I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t!”

 

Behind the one-way glass in the observation room, Greg and John looked at each other for a moment.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let Sally interrogate Kate?”

“They do have some issues to straighten out. I think in this case, Sally would be a good person for Kate to open up to. In the end they both did get cheated on by the same guy. Just never thought Anderson was such a dog!”

“Sherlock isn’t so sure. He said something is amiss but he couldn’t put his finger on it. But he’s always a little oversensitive. And safe for us to presume you’ve got your case sorted here?”

“Yeah. Wanna grab a pint later?”

“Sure.”

 

**##########**

 

 _Happy birthday to me. What a wonderful birthday! Two presents…_ Sally thought to herself as she opened her safe and added her eighth cork in the oak box. _Can’t wait for my next birthday... two to none, Sherlock Holmes!_


	4. Fifteenth July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation begins. Sherlock, John and Greg finds out they were dealing with one serial killer, a very smart one too.

“One day we’ll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.” John looked back at Sally when she made that remark. His eyebrow twitched, remembering those same words the first day he had met her. This time, he decided to entertain her.

“Why would he do that? There’s enough mystery in the world to keep him entertained, you know?”

“Oh,” Sally chuckled sarcastically, “trust me, I know. But he will, one day, decide that they weren’t smart enough for him. He will do it just to prove he’s smarter than everyone.”

“That’s enough Sally. Let the doctor leave.” Greg paced up towards them and signalled for John to leave. John nodded, glad that the conversation was over.

 

Ever since Layla’s murder, Sherlock was constantly bothered by something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. John felt something was wrong too.

_Send me every unsolved murder you have from the seventies. -SH_

_Is John away? -GL_

_No. Need to find something. -SH_

His phone rang before he could send Sherlock a reply. It was John.

“Hey mate. What’s wrong with Sherlock now?”

“We’ve been trying to find something in Layla’s case. Something isn’t right.”

“What is it? You’re aware that the case is closed right? Is this about Anderson? Listen, I know Sherlock isn’t Anderson’s best friend but there just wasn’t enough evidence for the murder. It was all circumstantial--”

“No, it’s not that. We’re aware that her fingerprints on the knife were in the wrong position. No way she could’ve stabbed Layla in that angle holding the knife like that. She was framed, that much we are sure of. But there is something in this case, like we’ve seen something like this before. Just not sure what triggered that brain of his. We really need those files Greg.”

“Right. I’ll get someone to send them over tomorrow.”

“Ta. Will you ***** ** _send*_** be **_*them*_** coming **_*over*_** with it? **_*tonight!*_** Could use another pair of eyes. Shut up Locke! He said tomorrow!” Greg could hear Sherlock yelling into the phone.

“I’ll see what I can do. If I can bring them over tonight I will.”

“Cheers. Dinner’s on us.”

 

Greg had made a copy of all unsolved stabbings since the early seventies and packed them into boxes. He drove towards Baker Street, wondering what John and Sherlock were going to find. He parked in front of Speedy’s and called John to help him with the boxes. Settling down in 221B’s living room, Sherlock started going through the cases, sorted them by types of wound, location, gender, age, occupation and race. A few hours went by quickly as the three of them organised the files by Sherlock’s instructions. They found themselves surrounded by half-empty mugs of cold tea and mountains of case files.

“These are definitely gang murders. The stab wounds corresponds with the ones you’ve cracked before. And the body is always reported by gang members. The same ones. Find their rival in the same turf and you will most definitely link it back to them.”

“Did you just use the word _turf_?”

“It was in the files. I have to incorporate slangs in order for Lestrade here to comprehend my train of thoughts better, dear Watson.” Sherlock explained as he bundled up the files in his hand and labeled them with a post-it note as ‘Gang’.

“Next are these ones. They are unrelated murders, but all of them most likely perpetrated by their spouse or lover. You will need to find evidence to convict, as much as I need them to be sure. But that is your job. I’ve pointed you in the right direction.”

“Hold on, I thought you were looking for something related to Layla’s murder?”

“I’m getting there, patience Gregory.” Sherlock labelled the stack of files in his hands as ‘Passion’ before turning behind, reaching for the tallest stack of files.

“Hey, you got my name right!” Greg exclaimed excitedly.

“I was bound to get it right eventually. Now Graham, these are unknown. Unfortunately there wasn’t enough in those files for me to deduce anything. They will stay cold due to the incompetency of the officers who collected evidence... Anderson's name is in quite a few of them."

A glare from John made Sherlock close his mouth immediately and almost bit his own tongue.

"And lastly, these are the interesting ones…”

There were three stacks of case files in the middle. He took the stack on the far left and opened the first file.

“I am quite sure these are all serial killers. They could be the same person, few different person, or a few people working together. I don’t know yet. But this is worth my time looking into.”

Greg lifted an eyebrow and looked over to John who was equally as confused.

“And Layla belonged in this pile.”

Sherlock took the rest of the night explaining to John and Greg of what he analysed in those three stacks.

 

There were fifteen victims in total. There was no distinct pattern in gender, race or age. Sherlock found the only thing that was common between the murders and put them together.

 **The stack on the left had four victims.**  
They were all stabbed in the back alley and had an opened bottle of wine beside or near the body.

 **The stack in the middle had six victims.**  
They were all stabbed in their own homes during intercourse. No prints or DNA were obtained from the victims.

 **The stack on the right had five victims.**  
They were all stabbed in their homes with an obvious suspect but later proven to be not. Framed. Layla’s murder was the fifth.

 

“With Layla, we have proven that it was impossible that Kate had stabbed her. Her medical showed that she was choked hard enough to blackout. If she was telling the truth, she wouldn’t be the first to encounter the same killer. Always at night, chokes the witness face down and tries to frame them for the murder.”

“Wouldn’t the killer know to do a better job after so many failed attempts to frame someone?” Greg asked half-heartedly.

“He or she obviously wanted it to fail. God knows how many people the force has locked up were framed by this psychopath.” John added.

“All of them were stabbed in the heart, and it is always a clean stab. No torture or disfigurement. And the blood on the wound is always smudged, as if someone held themselves close enough to push the blade through with their own body, to feel the victim’s life seep out of them, their last breath, last heartbeat… we are definitely dealing with a psychopath serial killer here. One that knows how to cover their tracks.”

“Hold on, Sherlock.” John interrupted Sherlock and opened a few files randomly from all three piles. “Oh god, we are looking for one killer. I’m sure of it.”

“What did you see?” Sherlock asked, looking at the files that were opened when John pointed at the date on Layla’s file. "I must have noticed that subconsciously! Well done, John Watson!"

"What is it?" Greg still had no idea what they noticed. He was sat too far away from the files to read the date. 

John turned over and faced Greg before he said, “Fifteenth of July. Every one of them.”


	5. Realisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock comes closer to the real identity of the July 15th killer, he found himself caught between his wants and needs.

A year after Layla’s murder, Kate and Philip Anderson had decided to file for a divorce. Sally was over the moon! But before she could properly claim Philip as her own, he had decided to drop off the grid and went into hiding. It was eight more years before anyone saw him again.

Throughout the years, Sally had left fake clues for the consulting detective, leading him around the block. Of course, she couldn’t have done it on her own. She had help from Sherlock’s nemesis, Moriarty.

 

When Anderson first fell off the grid, she was angry, and was very close to breaking her pattern - killing someone outside of her birthday. The blade was only millimetres away from the victim’s chest when she heard someone whispering behind her.

“Well, breaking a pattern because of a broken heart… how cliche.”

Sally turned around and found herself staring into Moriarty’s eyes. She kept her mouth shut.

“Would you like me to take that for you?” He waved his hand around her knife. “I don’t like leaving witnesses.”

“Go ahead.”

He stabbed the victim once in his chest before pulling the knife out and sliced the victim’s throat.

“What do you want? I know you don’t show up for no reason.”

“Sharp! You’re preeeeetty good. I want in on your little game with the Consulting Detective. And really? On your birthday? Sooooooo predictable! I can make the game better, if you want.”

Sally reached out her hand towards Moriarty, and he shook it.

“The more the merrier, Jim.”

And on her 31st birthday, she received her first present (victim) from Moriarty. He would send her a card with a name on it, and they were not easy targets. Years of practice made Sally a sharp predator. The thrill of danger only fuelled her adrenaline more, and it made Sally a dangerous killer.

 

**#############**

 

Three years later, Sherlock was still trying to find the July 15th killer. But all he knew for sure was the killer would only kill on this date and a bottle of wine is always present. Greg, John and himself had kept this investigation to themselves. There was not enough evidence to open a case officially.

“Always on July fifteenth. It is a significant day. None of the victims are related in any way. Always a bottle of wine somewhere, opened.”

“Is that all we have?”

“Mycroft, I would give you more if I had them. I’ve been on this killer’s trail for years.”

“That’s not much to work with.”

“You’re the bloody government and you’ve found someone with less.”

“But this is insignificant data. Sherlock, perhaps you should accept that you’ve been outwitted.”

“No. I will not.”

 

**#############**

 

In those years, Sherlock and John went on with their lives. They got married and adopted a baby girl, Rayna Elizabeth Holmes-Watson. They were still on cases for the Yard, but this one always lingered at the back of their minds.

Year after year, the July 15th killer took one life, and left clues for Sherlock. He would follow the trail and hit a dead end after months. Sherlock never realised they were evidence planted to throw him off, until the death of a significant person on July 15th this year.

Sally was turning 38. In the past seven years, Moriarty had sent Sally on hunts for her birthday. She gleamed with joy when a private number called her this morning.

“Happy birthday my darling. Ready for your present?”

“Twelve months, Jim. I wait twelve months every year for this day. So who do I get this year?”

Last year, Jim sent Sally on what she claimed to be the best hunt of her life. He promised that it would get better every year.

Jim chuckled over the phone and whispered, “Philip Anderson.”

 

One of Moriarty’s men found Anderson living in the basement of an empty warehouse. They were using the warehouse’s ground floor for a drug transaction when they heard pots and pans clatter below them. They kept him tied up in the basement and called Moran.

“What did he say his name was?”

“Anderson, Philip.”

“Oh ho ho. Boss is going to be thrilled. Keep him alive.”

“Yes boss.”

Anderson’s stomach flipped when he heard the man mention his name on the phone. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Better to die than to be tortured. He was kept tied up to a chair for what seemed to be hours before the door to his basement opened, and Sally stood there.

“Well, what do we have here?”

“Sally, oh thank god. Get me out of this chair.”

She laughed in his face.

“This is not funny. I know we had our differences, but come on. This isn’t the time.”

“Really? You. Broke. My. Heart.” She slapped him with every word.

His face stung. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

“You’re sad? Angry? Now you know how I felt. I had you. You were mine, and you will always be.” She pulled her knife out of her boot and pointed it at his heart.

“Your heart belongs to me.” And she plunged it deep in one swift move.

“Happy birthday to me.”

 

**#############**

 

John’s phone pinged on their work table while he was cooking lunch. Rayna was practising the violin with Sherlock and he glanced over.

**Anderson found dead. Warehouse in Creekmouth. -G**

“John! Turn off the gas. We are leaving, NOW!” He grabbed John’s mobile and shoved it in his face in the kitchen.

“Christ! Was he there this whole time? Alright, Rayna, head down to Gran’s. We’ll be back in a couple of hours alright?”

“Okay! Remember to eat lunch daddy.” Rayna shouted as she hopped down the stairs towards Mrs Hudson’s flat.

 

**#############**

 

Sherlock paced around the crime scene, looking for clues. This time, Moriarty left him an obvious clue. On the wall Anderson was facing, Jim spray painted his infamous phrase ‘Did you miss me?’ and a smiley face.

“Moriarty.” John said under his breath. “Sherlock, did you see-- Sherlock?” John looked around and realised the familiar figure of his husband was missing.

He was gone, right under their nose.

 

Sherlock saw the spray paint from the corner of his eyes as soon as he stepped into the room. ‘ _Moriarty_ ’, he thought to himself. The vibration in his pocket was unmistakably going to be a message from his nemesis, and as always, Sherlock was right.

**Did you miss me? Sending you a car! -JM**

A quick glance over to John, and he knew he had to go alone. Last time they were lucky Jim didn’t blow them up at the pool, but god knows what he would do this time.

_‘To protect them. John would understand.’_

While John was staring at the wall, Sherlock made quick steps and left the building and noticed a cab across the street. _‘That would be it.’_

The cab took him an hour away from the warehouse into the suburbs. They stopped in front of a dainty little cottage. Alighting from the cab, Sherlock noticed the front door opening.

“Sherlock! How nice of you to join me. Tea? Or would you prefer to have a cigarette?”

Sherlock did not miss Jim’s voice at all. He cringed at the thought of spending an afternoon with the criminal consultant.

“Tea, two sugars.” It would be ideal to play along for now. He sat on one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and waited for Jim.

“So,” Jim sets down a mug on the table next to Sherlock, “let’s get right down to business. I have a proposition for you.”

“My services in return for John and Rayna’s safety.”

“Clever! Join me, Sherlock. You are wasting that brilliant mind of yours on dead people. What’s the point, hmm?”

“I solve puzzles. Dead people are just… a part of it.”

“Oh, but there has been a puzzle you’ve been trying to solve, isn’t there? I know who the July 15th killer is. Join me, and I’ll give you puzzles bigger than the ones you’ve ever cracked. Better yet, you get to plan puzzles and see them unfold! I’ve always found that part of the job a little… dull.”

Sherlock took a sip of his tea. _‘Puzzles, John and Rayna safe, and I get the answer to the July 15th killer… John… I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon, I promise.’_

“You have a deal.”

“Brilliant!”

 

**#############**

 

Sherlock never left London, not even for one minute in the past eight months but he never went home to John and Rayna.

“If he was dead, his last words to me would be _‘turn off the gas’_... and Rayna misses him so much.” John said while nursing his sixth pint. Mycroft and Greg had invited John over while she spent the weekend at the Holmes’ estate.

“He is alive, but no matter what I do, he won’t show.” Mycroft added.

“It has been eight months. What was he thinking? Do we know if he is being held against his will?” John asked.

A week ago, Brian (one of Mycroft’s detail placed on Baker Street) spotted Sherlock at the corner of the street. Nowhere near 221B, but it was obvious he was trying to avoid surveillance. When Sherlock noticed that it was impossible to sneak back home without being spotted, he gave up and left. Mycroft tried to follow his trail but Sherlock switched cars more than once.

“He isn’t. But something is holding him back. The most logical explanation would be a threat, on both yours and Rayna’s lives. If he stays away, you’re safe.”

“But he promised… in good times or bad times. There must be something we are missing.”

And John was right. They had missed it so many times, when John finally noticed the clue Sherlock had been leaving behind, he was angry at himself. The times when Sherlock showed up at the corner of Baker Street where the CCTVs are, he would leave a coded message by tapping his finger on his thigh. It was Morse code, but translating it directly would make no sense to anyone except for Mycroft. The code was a Holmes family secret, not even the spouses are allowed to learn.

“They are working on something big. Sherlock’s given the task to plan the escape routes. He has twenty eight plans currently. Moriarty won’t tell him what the plan is, but from what he gathered, it would be a mass bombing in the city. John, he’s also asked me to tell you that he’s sorry, but he had to do this to protect you and Rayna.”

“I can very well protect myself! Is there anyway to send him a message? If you can, tell him he’s a class-A prick, and I don’t need him to sacrifice himself!”

“Unfortunately it is a one way communication. I believe Moriarty monitors his every move, thus the code. We very rarely use it unless it’s a level ten emergency.”

As Mycroft finished his sentence, a knock on the door turned both their heads. Anthea had opened the door slightly to remind Mycroft of his next appointment. John got the hint and excused himself to leave.

When he got back to 221B, he was surprised to find a letter under the door. It wasn’t mail day. The letter was addressed to him, written in the beautiful script he recognised as Sherlock’s.

**_John Holmes-Watson_ **

No return address. He climbed the stairs and made a beeline to the bedroom. Opening the envelope, he sat down abruptly on the bed and pulled out a card. It was a short note, but it was enough to drive John absolutely furious.

 

 

 

> **_My dear husband,_ **
> 
> **_By now you should have realised I am not dead, in fact I am very much alive and well taken care of. I am doing this to keep you and Rayna alive, and possibly take down the July 15th killer along with Moriarty, even if it meant that I might never be able to see you again. This note is the only note you will ever get. Please, do not try to find me.  
>  _ **
> 
> **_I still and will always love you, even if we are apart._ **
> 
> **_Yours forever,_ ** **_  
> _ ** **_Sherlock_ **

 

“You are a fucking moron!” John yelled and threw himself against the bedroom door, dropped to the floor and hugged his own knees, fuming silently.

 _‘The puzzle. It’s always the puzzle before anything else, even if it meant joining the dark side?’_ John thought to himself. His mind swam around that idea for a long while before Sally’s voice made an appearance in his train of thoughts -

 

 

 

> _“One day we’ll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”_
> 
> _“But he will, one day, decide that they weren’t smart enough for him. He will do it just to prove he’s smarter than everyone.”_

 

John realised what that meant. That day had came and went when Sherlock decided to join Moriarty… John whispered to himself in tears, realising what his husband had become.

“And he has just done exactly that… Sally was right.”


	6. Chapter 6

The past year since Anderson’s death had been filled with ups and downs. John continued to help Greg with cases as a part-time medical examiner. Even while he is his own man, Sherlock’s disdain for Sally continued to manifest through John.

A case with three dismembered bodies came through on the day before Sally’s birthday. They had spent the day at the scene together, and John was as unpleasant as he can be. Right before they wrapped up, he finally exploded when Sally made a remark about Sherlock’s disappearance.

“Looks like he doesn’t care as much as we all thought he would. How’s Rayna holding up anyway? I’m sure she misses her father… or she doesn’t remember him already?” Sally chuckled at her own amusement.

“Piss off Sally. I lost my husband, Rayna lost her father. Is our pain your joy? You are the worst kind of psychopath you know?” John yelled as he stormed off from the crime scene.

“Oh, you have no idea John… no idea.” Sally whispered under her breath over the bodies.

 

Sally paced around her living room as her 39th birthday approaches. It was ten minutes to midnight, and her day had been painful, as was every other day since Sherlock’s disappearance.

_ You have no idea how evil I can be, John Watson… _

She fired a quick message to Moran - What about Rayna Holmes-Watson for my birthday this year?

At midnight, she received a phone call from the same blocked number every year.

“So, I heard you have a request for your present this year.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“You have my blessing. Happy birthday!”

As soon as Sally heard that, she hung up. The thoughts of seeing John in pain made her heart flutter. Maybe, just maybe Sherlock would show up at her funeral… His sorrow and grief would mark a big win in Sally’s books.

 

**###################**

 

“Rayna! We have to go!” John yelled from the front door. He was on his way out to the clinic and had asked Molly to look after for the night.

“I can stay alone at home y’know? I’m not a child anymore.” She sulked.

“Better be safe than sorry love. You know what your papa and I used to do for a living, and I never know if we’ve pissed someone off without knowing. I’ll pick you up for supper alright?”

“Okay. Promise?”

“Promise.”

 

John was called into the clinic to cover for two other doctors who had their own emergencies, and the clinic was packed to the brim. It was a long line of cold patients. As he was finishing up, his phone buzzed in four irregular sequence. He hadn’t felt that for a year. It was Sherlock.

**Rayna in danger. -SH**

Without a second look, he pocketed his phone along with his anger towards his husband before running out of the clinic. He managed to wave down a cab in record time, threw every dollar he had on the front seat and asked him to drive as fast as possible towards Molly’s address. It would normally take twenty minutes minus traffic to get there, but he got there in ten… but was he too late? He felt his pistol eating into his back. As the cab came to a halt, his face paled and body trembled.

The door was open. Uniforms were already there. Lestrade.

“Oh god, no.”

His legs froze as he stood at the door. Lestrade was eight paces ahead of him, speaking to the first responders.

“John.” Greg turned around and motioned for his team to leave.

“Where is my daughter?” His face was in pain from frowning.

“John, I need your gun. Please.” John handed over his pistol, and Greg led him towards the kitchen. As they walked past the living room, he saw Molly covered in blood, sat on the oakwood chair with another officer.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered when her eyes met with John’s.

She’s dead. Rayna is dead.

 

**###################**

 

_ It has been a year since I’ve seen John. I constantly wonder how he is doing. I’ve locked my heart away to keep them safe, and alive. But would John really understand? He had an episode this morning… three dismembered corpses. Obviously one of my shelved plans were used. Executed perfectly. Doubt anyone would trace it back to Moran. _

“Glad you liked your present. Happy birthday!” Jim said into the phone as he walked into Sherlock’s office and disrupted his thoughts.

_ Happy birthday? Who would be so important for Jim to call just to wish happy birthd-- July 15th! _

 

“Jim.”

“No, I’m not telling you.”

Sherlock rotated in his chair to face Moriarty. He saw the look on Jim’s face…

_ No. Not John. He promised! _

“You promised!” Sherlock hissed.

“Ohhhhh! You read me. Impressive! But I promised that  **I, Jim Moriarty** wouldn’t do anything to your family. I said nothing about others.”

“Who. Is. It?”

“Someone you really, really hate working with.”

_ Couldn’t be Mycroft. Birthday, that was the significance of that date. Whose birthday is on the 15th of July… working, implies that he or she is from the Yard. _

Sherlock sat staring at Jim’s back, recalling every 15th of July since he had started consulting for Lestrade. There was quite a number of people who was away every 15th of July, but there was only two that he absolutely hated working with - Sally and Anderson...

_ Anderson is dead. Sally fucking Donovan. _

 

It was as if Jim could read Sherlock’s mind.

“Well done Sherlock! You are right. And guess who I’ve granted her for her birthday this year?”

_ The argument this morning. John called her a psychopath. She will want to prove it to him. I’m not within her reach, that leaves… Rayna. _

 

“Jim.” Sherlock had put his wall up. His facial expression was unreadable.

“Oh… what’s going on- ugh!” Before Moriarty could turn around and finish his question, Sherlock plunged the titanium pen Mycroft had gave him for his wedding into Jim’s heart from the back. He can see the engraved letters of his and John's initials slowly disappearing into Jim's body.

“No one, NO ONE TOUCHES MY FAMILY.” He said sternly into Moriarty’s ear and pulled the pen out, dropping the limping body onto the floor. Lowering himself next to Moriarty, he glared into his eyes as Jim’s life slowly seeped away. One last breath, and there laid Jim Moriarty in his own pool of blood.

Sherlock lifted the phone on his table in his bunker and phoned the one number on speed dial while his other hand typed a short text message, sent to John.

“Moran. I’m taking over the entire operation. Send someone down to clean up.”

“Jim?”

“Dead.”

“Yes boss.”

 

And Moran's two words changed Sherlock’s life forever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale.

_ ‘Jim Moriarty. His name ran through my tongue in muscle memory. It feels familiar, at the same time it hurts. That was the name that I had chased after. I won, but I’ve lost too many pieces of my heart along the way. Rayna, how I wish you are here with me. You would understand why, but I am still sorry, very sorry it had to go down that road.’ _

Sherlock stood on a hill, looking down at Rayna’s funeral a kilometer away. He knew better than to show up, but this would be his last opportunity to see John out in the open before his new career takes off.

 

Rayna’s funeral was small, with a circle of family and friends. Sally was stationed at the funeral along with two junior officers just in case if Moriarty shows up. No one knew he was dead except for Sherlock and Moran. She was none the wiser. It was terribly difficult for her to keep a straight face, knowing that she had put that body in the ground, and the quiet sobs of family and friends only fueled her pounding satisfaction. Once again, she had took a huge point against Sherlock in her own secret competition with him.

John had ran out of tears. In the past few days, he had called, emailed, and even posted on his blog, begging for Sherlock to come home. He deleted his blog post the morning of Rayna’s funeral after reading it again for the sixteenth time since he posted on the night their daughter was killed.

_ ‘It was so pathetic. I can’t do that.’ _ John thought to himself as friends and family trickled away, leaving him behind alone with Rayna’s fresh grave. “I’ll find whoever that did this to you love. And now that you’re both gone…” John paused and ended his sentence in his own head,  _ ‘I have nothing to lose, even my own life.’ _

Sherlock had read every word John wrote, but he couldn’t risk John finding out who he is now, and he wouldn’t be able to live with the fact that John hated him. It was better to live in denial than to know the truth. To him, John is perfect. He could choose to kill or heal you. They had always balanced along the fence, and Sherlock had took the first step over. Although John had killed for Sherlock, the detective still wasn’t sure that John would be ready to cross the line of the law. 

 

Two weeks after Rayna’s funeral, Sally received a phone call from Moran.

“Sal, do not say a single word. I need you to only listen. Nod if you understand.”

Sally looked out her window and saw a camera on the street pointed towards her window. She nodded.

“Good. Now, there are two things I need from you in preparation for your next present. Boss knows it’s a little early, but he said breaking the pattern wouldn’t hurt once in awhile. If you are amenable, nod.”

She nodded.

“First, clean your hunting knife carefully and pin the note on Sherlock’s door. You will find the note under your door, but do not open it. There will be consequences if you do. Secondly, dispose of your wine cork collection. Leave them back where you first killed them. Remember, we’re watching.” Moran hung up once he was finished.

At midnight, she followed Moran’s instructions to the dot. Leaving the note pinned on Sherlock’s door with her hunting knife, she hopped onto her bike and rode across London to every location she had killed to drop off the wine corks. Her final destination was to the cabin where she killed Molly’s brother.

It was a dark night. There was no moon to light the path. She was careful not to drive all the way in, but parked a few hundred meters away in a clearing. Holding the cork in her gloved hand, she held her police issued firearm in the other. Quietly stalking up to the cabin, she noticed a glow flickering from a window.

She knocked on the door.

“Come in Sally.”

That voice sounded awfully familiar… Sherlock Holmes?

She opened the door to find Sherlock in his usual getup, sat on one of the sofa with his right leg perched on his left knee.

“Surprised to see me?” Sherlock said with his eyes closed.

“What are you doing here?” Sally was indeed surprised.

“If you must know, I know who you are.”

Sally did not hesitate. She pulled up her gun and pointed it at Sherlock’s head.

“Ah. You might not want to do that.” As soon as he spoke, she felt the pressure from a barrel of a gun behind her head. Sherlock opened his eyes, got up and walked over, standing with her gun in his chest. He leaned close into her ear and whispered, “I am Moriarty.”

“No. I’ve met him before. You are not Jim.”

“I killed him. That makes me Moriarty. It’s just another name, or if you prefer you can call me boss. I wouldn’t mind either.” Sherlock said as he pulled away from Sally and walked past her to leave. Next thing she knew, she was waking up on the floor with a massive headache and a swell on the back of her head. The sun was rising. She had to leave, but she heard the click of someone releasing safety off a gun. Blood from her face drained when she looked up and saw the face of the person above her.

 

**##################**

 

Ever since Sherlock had left, John had been extra cautious with his life. With Rayna now gone, his nightmares had gotten worse to the point where he chose not to sleep. He was reading a book when he dozed off, but a loud  _ ‘thunk’ _ on the door woke him up just when his nightmare was about to begin. A quick stretch, still dazed from his nap, he took his time and opened the door.

There was no one.

Just as he was about to close the door, he noticed a small hunting knife stabbed on the door with a note beneath it. John pulled out the knife with the note along and sat by the fireplace, dropping the knife onto the table next to him.

The note read:  **Follow the 15-7 victim trail. Good luck. -SHW**

 

_ ‘What the fuck.’  _ John thought. He felt the building up of his anger in his head. It was pounding hard, heart beating fast. For almost half an hour he had let his subconscious mind ruled by anger control him, and when he noticed what he was doing, it was too late. He was already on his way.

John hit the brakes harder than necessary, and the car came to a screeching halt. He realized it was Mrs Hudson’s car he was driving. He doesn’t remember a thing. These blackouts aren’t new to him. He had experienced it a few times when he first came back from Afghanistan, and as a doctor he knew it is a possible symptom associated with PTSD. He took a few deep breaths and calmed his heart rate.

_ ‘How did I get her car keys?’  _ He looked around the passenger seat and saw his set of lock picks and two pieces of scrap paper underneath along with the note.  _ ‘I picked her lock. Oh god, I hope I locked the doors behind…’ _

He started reading the pieces of scrap paper and noticed he had a list of names and addresses. Of all, he recognised two - Molly’s and her brother’s cabin.

_ ‘15-7. July fifteenth. The serial killer. Is Sherlock hunting this person now? Follow the trail. Right, murder scenes. He must have found something.’ _ John quickly patted himself down and found his gun in his back pocket. Letting out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t left his most trusted sidekick behind, he let the engines roar to life and raced down the empty streets of London.

 

John had decided to check the nearest location first - Molly’s house. As he walked up to her door, he noticed there was a wine cork with a fishing line pierced through, tied to her knocker. It was an unusual thing to have, and he decided that it was what he was supposed to find. Following the list, he found six more wine corks tied to different houses, one tied to the handle of a garbage tank.

The last location was Timothy Hooper’s lakeside cabin. As John pulled up at the porch, he noticed a familiar figure leaning against the open door.

“Sherlock!”

“Hello John.”

“After all these time, all I get is a ‘hello John’? No ‘I miss you’ or a hug?”

“Never saw you as a sensitive romantic John, but no. I’ve came to say goodbye and to leave you a present.” Sherlock waved his hand towards the living room through the door he was leaning on and John saw Sally Donovan out cold on the floor.

“What do you mean--” John started, but Sherlock held his hand up to palm John’s face, and that stopped John from talking. Sherlock leaned down and gave John a chaste kiss on the lips.

“I wish I could give you more, but John, I can’t. I’m not good enough for you. I’ve caused you so much pain and you don’t need more. You don’t… You deserve… so much better.” The sorrow in his eyes made John’s stomach churn, and tears started falling without him realising it.

“Goodbye John.”

As Sherlock released his hand from his face and walked away, John froze in place. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. His brain couldn’t process everything that had happened in the past five minutes fast enough. The shock of Sherlock really leaving him threw him on a loop. He could hear the faint crunch of twigs and dried leaves behind him, he knew it was Sherlock walking away, but his body wouldn’t move. He couldn’t focus, then once again, he blacked out.

 

When he regained his conscious mind, he felt cold. His fingers were holding something hard and familiar. The front door was wide open and he was pointing his gun at Sally on the floor. 

A few moments later, she stirred, and as she looked up at John. There was no reason for him to believe that she was the serial killer who they’ve been hunting for years, and the person who murdered their daughter in cold blood.

But he knew. Somehow, he knew. Then her face paled. He was now sure.

He grabbed the string of corks from his pocket and dropped them onto the floor in front of Sally. The look on her face made him cringe. She was smirking, then a light chuckle and eventually bursting into a loud laugh. Maniacal.

“I knew this was going to happen when he showed up. It was fun, wasn’t it John? I bet even you didn’t expect that. So, what now? Your husband decided to recruit you to be one of his henchman?”

John looked puzzled and Sally immediately picked it up.

“You have no idea, do you? You don’t know Sherlock had taken over Moriarty’s position. Sherlock is Moriarty now… and from the looks of it, rightfully so. Looks like he had abandoned you. You’re too good for him, hmm?”

John’s finger tensed. He applied a little pressure onto his index finger squeezing the trigger, not enough to fire, but enough to get a flinch from Sally.

“I’ve won anyway. Doesn’t matter if you kill me today.”

“No, that would be too easy. I have a better way to use the rest of your life.” And the rest of her life meant however long John decided it to be.

 

**##################**

 

Another week went by after leaving John behind at the lakeside cabin with Sally. Sherlock had started to manage Moriarty’s network better. To Sherlock, this isn’t a game where he killed for fun, no. Instead, he killed when necessary. Minimum damage, maximum returns. He had his fingers in every type of illegal business there is, but there are two that he had cut off and swore to never touch - drugs and children.

Six weeks he had not seen Sally or John, but he knew John was alive. John had wrote a post on his blog, informing their fans and readers that they will no longer be working on cases, and he appreciated their concern following Rayna’s death.

It was the most challenging six weeks for Sherlock’s mind, but it was also the worse six weeks of his life. It was supposed to be exciting, and fun. Instead, it was dull.

_ ‘Because John isn’t here to tell me how brilliant I am…’ _

Because John wasn’t there. But he couldn’t, could he? He had killed, yes, but does he have the capacity to cross the line?

The sharp ring on the black phone in the corner of the room jolted him out from his thoughts. That phone doesn’t ring unless World War Three is about to break out. And Moran was supposed to guard that phone when he is in the office. He wasn’t around. Sherlock had no choice but to pick up the phone himself.

“Speak.”

“Sherlock. What have you done?”

“Mycroft. How did you get this number?”

“Nevermind how. How could you do that to John?”

“Stop speaking in code. I have no idea what you mean, and I haven’t heard of John for weeks.”

“Surveillance caught your people heading into Baker Street, including Moran and Sally.”

There were no need for more words. Why were they there? Was Moran up to something he didn’t know? His heart was racing when he ran into the street and into his car.

“221B Baker Street. And hurry.”

His driver knew better than to stall. They zipped through traffic, breaking every traffic law they possibly can. As they pulled up to Baker Street, Sherlock noticed the lights were out in their flat. He ran up those stairs and saw the door slightly ajar. As he placed his hand on the door, he thought of all the possible scenarios he could be faced with, all with John’s body lied motionless on the floor.

 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice snapped Sherlock out of his own mind.

“John? Where are you? Are you hurt?” Sherlock hardly got those questions out of his mouth. His heart pounded, squinting his eyes trying to look into the dark living room of 221B where John’s voice came from. He heard a soft click and the lights came on, blinded him for a few seconds. Slowly, he peeled open his eyelids and barely saw the figure of his army doctor in a beige jumper, stained in streaks of red…

_ John knows what I’ve been doing. Sally told him, or more likely beat it out of her before he killed her. _

“I couldn’t bear the idea of you being away from me, Sherlock… those months I thought everyday would be my last. So many times I stared at my gun, the knife, the rope, the roof. But then I realised how stupid it would be for me to take my own life. So stupid, because I knew you were alive. Out there. Somewhere. But you still never came home for some reason… And when Rayna was murdered, I died, my heart died, the good doctor in me is gone. So I decided to look for a way to lure you back here. I had to find a way to show you that we belong together. What better way than this?” 

John Watson smirked, Sally’s knife in hand, a pile of dead bodies at his feet with Sally Donovan’s at the top of the pile.

“Welcome home, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly feel that this is a very poor attempt of mine. I have no idea how I let the story drift so far away from what I expected/wanted it to be. I have an alternate ending that I may post as Chapter 8, but in the meantime I'd like to complete the story.
> 
> I live for plot twists and dramatic endings. It was just not possible for me to write an ending with a normal arrest. If you were expecting that, sorry.


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